A man can give up so much, 
can limit himself to handwritten correspondence, 
to foods made of whole grains, 
to heat from a woodstove, logs 
hewn by his own hand and stacked neatly 
like corpses by the backdoor.

He can play nocturnes by heart. 
They will not make the beloved appear. 
He can learn the names of all the birds 
in the valley. Not one 
will be enticed to learn his.

Read the poem on American Life in Poetry.